


This Song of Mine in Three-Quarter Time

by Theo_Winterwood



Series: Dance Music [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas With Family, Christmas at the Burrow (Harry Potter), Gen, Lily is also there but I didn't tag her as a character because she's a baby without a speaking role, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Weasley Family-centric (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Winterwood/pseuds/Theo_Winterwood
Summary: “You never know, it could be fun,” Ginny says. “Or it could be weird. Or some of both.”“We could start a betting pool on which it’s going to be,” Harry suggests.“I’ll put two Sickles in for forty-five percent fun, the rest weird,” she tells him.A snapshot of Christmas 2007 at the Burrow with the collected Weasley family.Takes place in-universe withWhen the Police Come to Get Me, I'm Listening to Dance Music, a few weeks before the events of that story begin, but both pieces can absolutely be read independently of each other; reading one is not at all a prerequisite for the other.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: Dance Music [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064441
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	This Song of Mine in Three-Quarter Time

****12 December 2007, 5:46 p.m.** **

Ginny calls his mobile.

“Hello, Harry,” she says. “I’m calling about Christmas.”

“Oh, um,” he replies, thrown off-guard for a moment by the quick efficiency with which she got to the subject. He wants to say he misses chatting, like before, but doesn’t. “Of course, yeah. Well, obviously you get the kids, so they can go to the Burrow like usual. Want to keep things as normal as possible for them, under the—under the circumstances.”

“Right,” she agrees. “I figured that’s what’d happen. That’s not what I’m asking about.”

He’s quiet for only a moment before he manages an almost-casual, “Oh?”

She clears her throat. “Do you suppose you’d consider coming too?”

He furrows his brow. “To your parents’ house?”

“Yes.”

“Where your family’ll be?”

“Yes.”

“And where __you’ll__ be?”

“ _ _Yes__.” She sighs. “I’m not __mad__ at you, you know.”

“I know, but we’ve had better times.”

“We’ve also had worse times,” she reminds him. “If you’ll recall.”

“Gin,” he said, “please, let’s not, all right?”

“All right. Sorry, I just—You know.”

“Yeah. Same.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” He furrows his brow, trying to feel out why this feels like such a precarious idea. It’s not Ginny. They’ve been all right recently. Maybe sooner than expected, only a few months out of the divorce. Maybe being okay already was a good thing; maybe it proved you made the right decision at the right time. “I mean . . . I haven’t done this—the whole family thing—since we split up. I don’t know how your mum and dad feel about . . . about me, right now.”

“I think everyone can be adults about this,” she offers, not quite hiding a note of doubt in her voice. “You and me, I know __we__ can. For the kids.”

“The kids,” he repeats. “Their idea, I take it?”

She laughs a little. “Of course it is. James wanted to know what his dad was doing on Christmas and got very upset when I wasn’t sure. And he said, ‘But Daddy doesn’t __have__ another family,’ and then Albus started crying because he doesn’t __want__ you to have another family without him.” She sighs. “Anyway. It was a bit of a mess. I wish you’d thought to maybe have a conversation about this when you had them all weekend. I wish I’d thought of it.”

“I . . . I hadn’t even thought about Christmas yet,” Harry admits. “There’s a lot we haven’t had to figure out yet, isn’t there?”

“Yeah, sure is,” she agrees. “I don’t think we’re doing too bad, though. All things considered.”

“Hey, as long as we don’t each think the other has them and somehow re-enact __Home Alone__ for Christmas, I think we deserve some kind of prize,” Harry says. “Anyway, if I’d thought of it, I would’ve figured you taking them would be best, and then I’d—I dunno, I’d be fine. I’d go see a film or something.”

“You’re making me feel __sorry__ for you, Harry, and that’s not __fair__.” She says it like a protest, but it’s more fond than annoyed.

“What happens when you feel sorry for me?” he asks, his tone matching hers with its teasing familiarity. “You invite me to your family’s for Christmas?”

“You never know, it could be fun,” she says. “Or it could be weird. Or some of both.”

“We could start a betting pool on which it’s going to be,” he suggests.

“I’ll put two Sickles in for forty-five percent fun, the rest weird,” she tells him.

“Just two Sickles? In _this_ economy?”

“Well, I figure we should be responsible, since we’re single parents now and all,” she says jokingly. He can imagine the grin she probably has on her face. “So I’ll tell Mum you’re coming, yeah? Whether they like it or not.”

“Tell them I’m threatening to sneak down the chimney and hide under the tree.”

“Or disguise yourself as a gift and get delivered by post owl.”

“That poor owl.”

“That’s why they should let you come, to avert his suffering. Talk to you later, all right?”

“All right. Lo—Later, Gin.”

“Later, Harry.”

* * *

****18 December 2007, 6:07 p.m.** **

Harry brings two cups of coffee to the Weasleys’ shop on his way home from work. It’s crowded and noisy, half the merchandise shoved on the wrong shelves by the throng of holiday shoppers or in danger of being scattered across the floorboards.

He slips behind the counter and sets one of the cups next to Ron who’s working at the register. “Coffee, one sugar, one cream,” he says.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Ron tells him. “A bloody Christmas __saint__.” He looks at the woman rummaging through her purse and says, “Forget the five Knuts, just make it the seven Sickles even and we’ll call it square.” He hands her a shopping bag and glances down at the other cup of coffee. “That one’s George’s?”

Harry nods. “Mocha, extra shot espresso, extra chocolate, extra whipped cream, vanilla syrup.”

Ron makes a face and shouts, “George! Harry brought you something that I can barely qualify as coffee, because he’s a really nice and thoughtful bloke!”

“Really nice and thoughtful? Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

Ron shrugs and begins to ring up a boy buying an armload of trick sweets. “ _ _I’m__ not the one who braved coming into __this__ madhouse a week before Christmas to bring his ex-wife’s brother a heart attack in a cup.”

“Heart attack in a cup is my favorite flavor,” George says, appearing from a backroom with a crate. He shifts it up to one shoulder to free a hand to grab the coffee cup as he passes. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry watches George as he somehow manages to balance drinking coffee with opening the crate and restocking a shelf one-handed.

“You know I’m supposed to be there on Christmas,” Harry says, hoping it sounds casual. And knowing that Ron has known him too long to be fooled by that.

“Yeah, Ginny told us.” Ron dumps three dozen trick sweets into a paper bag and pushes them across the counter.

“Is that okay?”

“One Galleon, eleven Sickles,” Ron says to the boy. “It is what it is,” he says to Harry.

“What’s __that__ mean?”

“Bound to be a little awkward, isn’t it?” Ron comments, making change for the boy. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Harry makes a face and considers that. “I mean. To be fair. I’m probably still not Ginny’s favorite person on the planet right now. And I’m not your parents’ favorite person either, I reckon, what with having split from their youngest child and only daughter. And I can think of about a hundred things right now that could go wrong and about a hundred ways I could ruin Christmas, so—”

Ron looks impatient and turns to him. “Harry. Mate. I never thought I’d actually hear myself say this to you, but: You’re thinking too much.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“It’ll be fine. Probably.”

* * *

****Christmas Day, 25 December 2007, 7:06 a.m.** **

James and Albus rush down to wake up their father and second-favorite uncle sleeping in adjacent sleeping bags on the Weasleys’ floor.

(George considers it a true travesty and one of the great injustices of the world that he somehow ranks third. __Charlie’s only around once a year at__ best, he once pointed out, __and he never even brings candy or things that explode__.)

( _ _Yes, but he knows dragons__ , Harry explained.)

(Percy, meanwhile, has realized he somehow ranks higher than Bill, which he finds baffling, but has chosen not to question fate.)

“Christmas came, __Christmas came__ ,” James chants breathlessly, shaking Harry by the shoulder.

Harry feels around for his glasses and puts them on. “ _ _Already__?” he asks, smiling sleepily. “It looks like the sun isn’t even up yet. Must still be night.”

“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas,” Albus offers as a counterpoint to that.

Charlie yawns beside Harry. “Next year,” he declares, “I’m going to ask Father Christmas to tell my mother that I’m too damn old to sleep on the floor.”

****9:46 a.m.** **

James and Albus are enthusiastic about presents. Lily fusses in her mother’s arms.

Molly and Arthur are cheerful and bustling and don’t seem to quite know how to talk to Harry, so default to making broad statements to the room at large.

“Isn’t it nice, having everyone together,” Molly says. “There’s plenty more coffee cake and tea for anyone who wants any.”

Percy takes a sip of his tea with a quiet dignified look of judgement, then offers calmly, “More tea, Harry?”

****10:13 a.m.** **

James opens a small broomstick meant for a child and his face lights up. “A BROOMSTICK,” he yells. “LIKE MUMMY HAS.”

“A bit excessive of you, don’t you think,” Ginny murmurs to Harry, but she’s smiling.

“That’s what he said he wanted,” Harry tells her. “A broomstick like you have because he’s going to grow up to play Quidditch like his mum.”

“He doesn’t know you played too?” Charlie asks, taking a break from feigning interest in a pair of fireproof gloves from his mother that everyone else in the room was certain he’d never actually use.

Harry shrugs. “Hasn’t ever seemed like something important enough to mention.”

****10:28 a.m.** **

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Molly is asking. “He seems awfully young for that.”

“I’m almost SEVEN,” James announces.

“It only goes about a meter off the ground,” Harry offers. “And very slow.”

“It’s __fine__ , he’ll be perfectly safe,” Ginny backs him up.

****11:32 a.m.** **

Ginny takes James out into the back garden to try out the broomstick once they realize that Molly’s insistence of “not in the house” isn’t going to last much longer.

Albus is sitting in Harry’s lap with a set of wooden animals, carefully conferring each with a name.

Bear. Lion Boy. Monkey. Dennis. Rainbow Bird.

George runs out of nursery rhymes—both real and improvised—and foists Lily onto Hermione.

Molly smiles at Hermione and tells her how good she is with Lily, how well she takes to her.

“It __suits__ you,” she suggests cheerfully.

Ron’s ears turn pink and he develops a sudden fascination with an old burn mark on the carpet.

“I wonder if Bill and Fleur are having a nice Christmas in Paris,” Percy announces to nobody in particular.

****12:10 p.m.** **

Arthur has long since disappeared with the Muggle build-your-own-potato-lamp kit that Harry got him.

****1:26 p.m.** **

George announces he’s opening a bottle of wine.

“Oh, thank __God__ ,” Percy and Hermione mutter.

“I’ll help,” Harry says.

****2:09 p.m.** **

Harry and Ron gather up the scattering of gifts on the carpet.

Ron picks up the age-appropriate educational books that Hermione chose for James and Albus, and grins. “You know, I advised her against these,” he comments. “I told her, ‘’Mione, these are __Harry’s__ children. They aren’t going to __read__.’”

“Wow, thanks,” Harry tells him.

****3:19 p.m.** **

Hermione finds Harry sitting alone on Ron’s childhood bed. “Escaping for a bit?” she says, handing him a mug of hot cocoa and sitting down beside him.

He leans over to breathe in the steam rising from it and coughs slightly. “George made this, didn’t he?”

She puts her mug down on the bedside table to take a sip of Harry’s and raises her eyebrows. “I think he gave you as much firewhiskey as he gave himself. I should have reminded him that he’s got about five stone on you and that he should proceed accordingly.” She takes another sip from Harry’s mug and hands it back. “Hope this doesn’t kill you.”

“Holding up okay?” he asks her.

“Wasn’t that what I was coming up to ask __you__?” she replies.

Harry shrugs. “It’s a lot,” he admits.

She nods.

“What about you?” he asks again. “I don’t—I don’t want to talk about me.”

She laughs a little ruefully. “Every year,” she says, “I get the same kind and sympathetic speech about how they don’t want to make things complicated for me, how they know I don’t celebrate Christmas, but of course they want me to feel welcome, because I’m family.”

“We know you don’t celebrate Christmas, but you’re going to do it anyway.”

“Same thing every year.” She shrugs. “Not __nearly__ as interesting as the new exciting Weasley family holiday suffering you’re getting to experience.”

“Y’know,” Harry says, choosing to ignore the last part of what Hermione just said, “Ron should’ve told you when you started dating, ‘Hey, congratulations, you’re going to get the gift of an overbearing gentile family.’”

“You think I didn’t know that when I signed up for this?” Hermione shakes her head with a small laugh.

“Do they ever offer to, I dunno, do anything for Hanukkah?” Harry asks.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Why do I get the feeling that was just deflecting all your”—she gestures vaguely—“ _ _stuff__ back onto me?”

“My __stuff__?”

“Your insecurity and trepidation about whether you belong here today,” she clarifies. “But I thought __stuff__ was more tactful right now.” She takes the mug from Harry’s hands and takes a sip of cocoa. “And no, not really, but I also really haven’t encouraged that. I prefer to keep that sort of thing to just you and Ron, maybe Neville, maybe Luna. You know. Just the immediate family.”

****4:04 p.m.** **

Harry’s mobile rings. He sees the name come up and yet it still takes him a second to wrap his head around the idea that this is a call he’s actually getting.

“Hello?” he says.

“Happy Christmas,” Dudley says, a little quietly, as if he’s trying not to be overheard.

“Er, happy Christmas,” Harry replies. “You’re at your parents’, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s been . . . It’s been how it’s been. It’s fine.”

“Wow, sounds like you’re having a ball.”

“Well. You know. Hearing a lot of opinions about the state of the world today and the sorts of people they don’t like and far too many private details about the lives of people I don’t care about. Very educational.”

“Sounds like. Probably doesn’t help to be reminded that you __could__ have chosen not to go over there?”

“Could I have though?” A sigh. “Nah, you’re right.” He pauses. “Hey, for instance, did you know that according to Mum, Mrs. Caldwell’s son __might be a homosexual__?” He does a decent imitation of the tone of voice his mother uses when she gossips about things she finds distasteful, but it doesn’t quite mask the sting he still feels from having to hear it.

“Oh, bloody hell. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s Mrs. Caldwell?”

“Hell if I know,” Dudley says.

“You should ask Aunt Petunia to ask Mrs. Caldwell if he’s single, and if so, could you get his number please?”

“ _ _Harry__.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway. I just wanted to wish you happy Christmas. You know. Like family. You’re at the in-laws, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like fun,” Dudley tells him, both sincere and a little envious. “Say hi to the wife and kids for me.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t actually __have__ to. It just seemed like what you’re supposed to say.”

There’s a short pause. Somehow, through the phone line, Harry can still feel that very specific kind of quiet he used to know too well on Privet Drive, where you go still and almost stop breathing, listening to take stock of where the other inhabitants are and what they’re doing.

“Should I let you go?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, sorry. I think Mum’s getting dinner on the table. I should probably—”

“Of course. Right. Happy Christmas, Dudley.”

“Happy Christmas, Harry.”

****5:01 p.m.** **

They’re crowded around the dining table, everyone about halfway through their first helpings of roast, and ham, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, bread sauce, carrots and parsnips, and big soft rolls with butter.

Arthur contemplates a forkful of potato. “The lamp is a work in progress,” he announces, “but I’ve almost got it cracked.”

“Ah, so __that’s__ why the smell of electrical fire,” Charlie comments nonchalantly, taking another roll from the basket.

****5:23 p.m.** **

Ginny is chatting with George about an old school friend of Charlie and Bill’s. “You must remember,” she says “she was at Bill’s wedding. She was the one who danced with Tonks and Lupin most of the night.”

“That was such a lovely wedding,” Molly observes. “I __do__ wish we’d have another one to look forward to sometime.”

“ _ _Mum__ ,” Ron says. “We’ve __talked__ about this.”

“Did you know,” Percy cuts in, “that they’re proposing a second Knight Bus line to cover the greater part of Scotland? Of course, our office is looking at the feasibility of that, so I’m forming a committee to take some surveys and put together research before we officially request any funding from the Ministry. But the fascinating thing about it is . . .”

****5:41 p.m.** **

Harry is helping Albus and James arrange their vegetables into faces on their plates. He’s trying to arrange a serving of peas into a grin, but they keep rolling toward the middle of the plate.

He suspects he’s probably not winning any fatherhood points from their grandmother for this, but it’s really helping to dissuade anyone from asking him any serious questions about how work is going.

“Carrot nose,” he says to Albus. “Very classic.”

“Ham eyes!” James slaps two mismatched pieces of ham down.

“Genius,” Harry tells him.

****6:32 p.m.** **

George and Ron volunteer to take care of dishes.

Percy looks dismayed. “But I was going to offer to—”

Hermione leans over and says softly to Harry, “I feel like we’re being abandoned.”

George and Ron open another bottle of wine.

****7:04 p.m.** **

Hermione is holding up small talk with her practiced speeches on the new path the Ministry is hoping to take. Honest and transparency. Regaining the people’s trust.

In the kitchen, Ron and George are trying to sing “The Wren in Furze” in fits and starts, neither one acknowledging the fact that there was only ever one Weasley who could carry that song from start to end.

****8:34 p.m.** **

Hermione says she’s going for a stroll. “It’s a lovely night,” she claims, as though everyone believes that’s a real reason.

Albus and James are upstairs in their pajamas and have begged Charlie to tell them a dragon story for bedtime, and Harry’s already put Lily to sleep.

“Mind if I join?” Harry asks.

****8:49 p.m.** **

“I get the __distinct__ feeling,” Hermione announces, once they’re far enough down the lane to be well out of earshot, “that Molly Weasley doesn’t care so much about my work as she does about the fact that Ron hasn’t married me yet and produced more grandchildren.”

“ _ _Everyone__ gets that feeling,” Harry promises her. “But what can you do? You’re the last one left, ‘cause Bill’s off and married already, and I’ve already married their daughter __and__ messed that up. You’re the next hope.”

“Someone needs to tell George and Charlie to start shouldering some of the burden here,” she sighs.

“Doubt you can count on either of them to find a partner and settle down in the immediate future, just to get their mother off your back. What about Percy?”

Hermione looks a bit thoughtful at that. “I think he might,” she admits. “But it’s not my business, and I doubt it’ll get anyone off our back.”

Harry tilts his head in curiosity, silently inviting her to elaborate.

“ _ _Not my business__ ,” she repeats, giving him a pointed look. “It’s not like I’m in his confidence or anything. And unless __you__ are . . .”

“Then it’s not my business either,” Harry finishes for her. “Got it.”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t’ve even mentioned it, I don’t think, only I helped you finish that mug of cocoa.”

They walk along the road through the dark fields in the countryside around the Burrow in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the peace and quiet.

“I used to want to be in this family so much,” Hermione admits with a faint smile.

Harry nods. “So did I.”

“And then.”

“And __then__.”

“Is it odd to say that I think I like all of them on their own as people, but . . . ?”

“But it’s too much together?” Harry suggests.

She nods. “And it’s not—It’s not __them__ , exactly.”

“No. You’re right. I think . . . Sometimes I think I get why Bill and Charlie left home as soon as they could to go far away and get some room to breathe.”

Hermione sighs and looks up at the clouds in the winter sky, set aglow by the stars and moon. “Ron feels like he needs to support everyone. To __be__ there. He feels responsible. __George__ feels responsible. Percy feels . . . Like he has an obligation he owes them.” She hesitates before adding, “I think Ginny fits in just fine, actually. I think she’s a lot like her mum in a lot of ways.”

“That’s not a __bad__ thing,” Harry retorts, a little defensive.

“I didn’t say it was. It’s just . . . a __thing__.” She laughs a little. “A thing I’m no good at and can’t booklearn how to do.”

Harry laughs as well. “We wouldn’t buy it, even if you could. Anyway, I like you best as __you__.”

She grins at him. “Sap,” she replies. “I like you as well, you know. Even if your skills as a food portraitist leave something to be desired. Really, peas for a mouth? When the mashed potatoes were __right there__?”

****9:48 p.m.** **

Hermione and Ron have gone up to bed.

Molly and Arthur and Ginny have gone to bed.

The last four sit around the dwindling fire.

George is drunk and sleepy, leaning against Charlie on the sofa like they’re still kids. Charlie puts his arm around George.

Harry sits cross-legged on the carpet, back resting against the rolled-up sleeping bags he and Charlie will be sleeping in later. Percy’s perched on a footstool beside him, and they’re both carefully toasting marshmallows, having decided that neither of the others is sober enough to undertake the task.

Percy plucks a perfectly light golden marshmallow off the end of the fork and sandwiches it between two frosted sugar cookies—frosting side in—and passes it to George.

“Hey, Harry,” Charlie says, “I like mine burnt, all right?”

“’Course you do,” Harry replies.

Percy is examining the sticky residue on his fingertips with mild distaste, but says nothing as he spears another marshmallow and begins to toast it.

“Was today all right for you?” he asks Harry.

Harry thinks for a minute. “Parts of it,” he decides.

Percy nods. “I suppose that’s the ideal outcome, then.”

Harry manages to catch the marshmallow aflame for Charlie and lets it burn for a few seconds before blowing it out and giving it to him, oozing between a pair of gingersnaps.

“Other than the kids,” Charlie says, “I don’t figure anyone enjoys __all__ of Christmas.”

“I don’t,” George agrees, his whole voice soft with sleep, “because he used to really love it, so all I ever wanted once we started to get older was . . .” He stops to yawn. “I just wanted every year to pretend it was as good as he thought.”

They all fall quiet then, for there didn’t seem to be anything else that could be said.

It’s an odd silence, companionable and melancholy, comfortable in the unsaid sadness and memories, some of them shared, others held private and close.

George falls asleep first, on the couch, then Charlie.

Then the fire slowly gutters out, and Percy stands, puts a blanket over his younger brother, and one over his older brother.

And then in a gesture that should have seemed ridiculous, he holds out a hand to Harry, who takes it.

Percy shakes his hand seriously.

Harry wants to ask him what that’s about, but doesn’t.

He just wishes the last Weasley awake one last happy Christmas and goes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "The Christmas Waltz," first recorded by Frank Sinatra.
> 
> I wrote this in the body of an email last Christmas Eve, when I was about the only person in the office all day with nothing to do. I just remembered it and figured that I'd go ahead and share it here, for anyone who might enjoy it.
> 
> (And now being half-tempted by the idea of a bit about the same Christmas day in Maine for the other side of things.)
> 
> (Also, for anyone who hasn't read _When the Police Come to Get Me, I'm Listening to Dance Music_ , I promise that one isn't in the same style as this one--i.e., in present tense with timestamps.)


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